


Shelved your Joy

by MONANIK



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Depressed Miya Atsumu, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Melancholy, Minor Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Miya Atsumu Has ADHD, Miya Atsumu Needs a Hug, Nookstore Owner Sakusa Kiyoomi, Peer Pressure, Pining Miya Atsumu, Pro Volleyball Player Hinata Shouyou, Protective Sakusa Kiyoomi, Regrets, Sad Miya Atsumu, Sakusa Kiyoomi is Bad at Feelings, Slow Burn, emotional mess, enjoy, maybe a little ooc?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29182299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MONANIK/pseuds/MONANIK
Summary: “The owner…” he started, “He… intrigued me… He was older, and wiser, and looked like he’d done so much.” He was digging through old memories then, recalling the vague contours of a being he’d held so close to his heart for so many years. But his edges were blurry, and his features hard to pin down. He was forgetting him, forgetting Sakusa.Atsumu Miya, a closeted bookworm and fresh-faced college student who's lost track of himself in the city of Prague stumbles upon bookstore owner Sakusa Kiyoomi with his glove-clad hands. One day he stumbles upon that bookstore, and its alluring owner, and from then on his life and choices are put to the test.Atsumu is not hiding.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 17
Kudos: 124





	Shelved your Joy

**Author's Note:**

> hooh...
> 
> My first go at Sakuatsu! Please excuse any OOC behavior you might stumble upon, I tried my best. This is merely my interpretation of the two of them, one of which I've never written before (Sakusa).
> 
> Enjoy!

_My life don’t mean that much to me so I’m living for you_

_And you can’t stand the sight of me_

_So what’s the point of this fucked up catastrophe?_

_I’m waiting for my time to start as I waste it_

_\---_

It wasn’t like he was trying to hide it. If you asked Atsumu it was more about the act of keeping that world of his separate from his workday persona. The way people had hobbies or interest that didn’t merge well with their jobs, or the way teachers, too, watch porn. They sound strange when you say it out loud, and that’s perhaps the reason they’re what you’d call _hidden._

But Atsumu wasn’t hiding; he was merely concealing.

Yes. Concealing. That was the word. There was nothing to hide from.

In reality, he himself thought nothing ill of people like him, or folks who took pride in the hobbies that had through history so graciously been beat into the earth by film corporations and media. On the contrary, Atsumu applauded them for their bravery.

For him, books were a world of their own. No, they were _worlds_ of their own. Plural. He liked the reprieve from reality they provided, the glimpses they gave him of another, better alternative, because the one he himself inhabited was, quite frankly, a hot disaster.

No one knew about his… hobby. No one cared to ask whether he enjoyed any type of academic endeavors. Why would they? He wasn’t someone who exuded _smart_ vibes, exactly. That was Osamu’s job. Osamu was the golden child. Osamu was the smart one. Osamu was the intellectual. Atsumu was the brute, the jock, the volleyball idiot. Atsumu was the smudge on the family portrait.

So he went under the radar. He enjoyed himself when all eyes were intent on gazing lovingly at his brother, and when their attention he no longer could desperately reach for he turned in for the day and curled up to his books.

He knew the interest itself wasn’t embarrassing. There was nothing inherently strange, or shameful about it, and Atsumu was, after all, legally an adult now. No one would bat an eye at a college student bookworm. No one would care. But Atsumu lived in two worlds at once, and in his word people did. When he was younger and livelier he’d tried to stand for his hobbies. He’d excitedly list all the novels he was currently ecstatic about. He’d rant at length about his favorite authors. He’d place his heart on his sleeve. Eventually he understood that the looks, the comments, the backs—were his world’s way of telling him they didn’t want any part of it. That he was the black sheep of the herd.

“ _Y_ _a_ _love those books of_ _yers_ _and yet_ _yer_ _report card looks like this?”_ his mother would say. _“If_ _ya_ _put half the mind into_ _yer_ _studies maybe then_ _ya would_ _amount to somethin’.”_

So he started pretending. In high school he pretended he’d forgotten all about his book era. He pushed the need to gush and rant about the vice around his heart. He ignored the many times his hands twitched whenever he passed by a bookstore on the way home from school. Because it was easier. Because his books could no longer be used to compare him. They couldn’t be used to belittle him. They wouldn’t be used as a measure of his lacking intellect, or be an answer to his failing grades.

He turned to volleyball. Sports was easy. He was good at sports. He was strong, and fast, and agile, and the sport came naturally. There was no struggle to remember formulas, no need to do complicated math, no requirement to list dates and numbers. No one expected him to _slow down, sit still, stop fidgeting._ No one cared if his mind wandered, if his eyes glazed over. They knew he would do exceptionally well anyways. _He_ knew he would do exceptionally regardless. Because it was volleyball, and volleyball came naturally. Volleyball made his mother and father proud, if even for a minute. Volleyball wasn’t used to compare him to neither his intellect nor his brother.

Volleyball was easy.

But he stopped, that day as well, in front of the bookstore down the street. He stopped and stared at the sign above the door, at the plants growing on the windowsill inside.

It was a new establishment, a recently renovated and repurposed old locale that had stood empty since Atsumu started his freshman year. Now it was bustling with life once again.

It was a small bookstore, its door barely big enough to fit him through it, and yet it pulled him in. Lassoed him as easily as if he were prey on a silver platter. He knew how he looked; like a complete lunatic, standing in the pouring rain, glaring at his reflection in the shop-window. He knew, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to care.

His eyes were glued to slim fingers wrapped in pristine, white gloves, flipping gently through the pages of a book that had seen better days. Its pages were worn and yellow, and as brittle as earth, and yet the man in whose hands in sat treated it like a lover.

He was tall, really tall, and against the backdrop of countless bookshelves he looked like a blot of fine, thin ink—dressed in black as he were. His hair, a mess of dark curls, fell gently upon his face, and through the foggy glass Atsumu could just barely make out the shape of his long, straight nose and papercut jawline.

Perhaps it was the thunderclap in the distance, or the presumable completion of his book, but regardless of the fact the man chose that moment to look up, and his gaze fell upon Atsumu. Something akin to shock flashed in his features, which was quickly replaced by a fierce scowl. The man shut his book, callously slammed it on his desk, stomping his way over to the entrance.

The bell above jingled quietly in the rain.

“Who the hell are you? Either buy something or go away. You’re freaking me out,” he said, and Atsumu swore he saw stars in those midnight skies.

“Why are you just standing there? Do you know how much dirt and pollution there is in rainwater?” The man kept yelling.

Atsumu could only stare. Stare at the two parallel marks on his forehead, and the beautiful depth of his eyes. At the curve of pink lips or the smooth, pale skin.

Silence stretched between them, until Atsumu regained the ability to speak.

“I, uh, like books,” he stuttered.

_Genius._

The owner quirked a brow at his horrifically embarrassing utterance. Atsumu could do nothing but beg for the Earth to open up and swallow him whole. He wanted to die—no, he was sure he would die of mortification.

Heat flared up his neck and ears, and stretched far and wide across his face. He was certain he looked like a flustered, wet rat.

He cleared his throat, “What I mean, uh, is that I’d like to buy somethin’, yeah? Sorry.”

The man looked him up and down, still sporting that ponderous frown, and appeared to have finally made up his mind when he fixed his gaze on Atsumu and said, “Not until you’ve dried up. Don’t want you dripping all over my freshly mopped floors.”

The grumpy shop-owner walked in and to the backroom, and came out minutes later holding an armful of what appeared to be towels. He motioned with a tilt of his head for Atsumu to come inside, and once he did handed him the stack of towels at the speed of light, practically throwing them on him. As if he were worried Atsumu’s incoherence would spread to him, too.

He gingerly started patting himself dry as he watched the man return to his desk.

He was reaching out for his book again as he spoke, “And clean off your shoes. If you leave mud tracks you clean them.”

Atsumu was certain this was no way to treat a customer. Sure, he was an idiot, but even he could tell this guy’s behavior was insanely inappropriate. On closer thought, Atsumu wasn’t sure he’d seen many people walk in or out of the store since it’d first been established.

“Ya know, if ya stopped treatin’ yer customers like shit ya would have a lot more of ‘em in the first place,” he said, scrubbing viciously behind his ears where droplets gathered to pester his sensitive skin.

The shop-owner gave him no hint he’d even heard him. He flipped another page in his book. Atsumu wiped his shoes on the little welcome mat and walked inside.

“The place is kinda cute, tho,” he said, loudly, as he turned to gaze at the plants and pots lining the walls and hanging from the ceiling. One end of the store, the one that wasn’t all windows, was covered in bookshelves placed in neat, tight rows. “I like whatcha did with the fairlylights ‘n all,” he said, pointing to the many blinking lights hanging from one end of the ceiling to the other and crawling up and down the bookshelves like vines. “If ya wiped that frown off yer pretty face ya would have plenty of customers, ’m sure,” he finished, pausing for a response that never came.

The shop-owner sighed.

“If this is your attempt at flattery it’s not working very well. Either buy something or get out.” He didn’t so much as grant Atsumu a single glance, idly flipping through his book, one leg over the other.

The rain outside kept pouring.

\---

_Everyone around me seems to judge me without knowing the reasons for the scars_

_Take one look, and run, ‘cause it’s ugly_

_But really, they’re the reason I am who I’ve become_

\---

Atsumu kept coming back to that place, to the store down the street, where sunlight didn’t quite reach, and late afternoons painted the stones of its building an ocean-blue. It was a quiet street in an otherwise busy city—crammed between the bigger intersections and swallowed whole by the overwhelming modernity around it. An old, still beating heart in the middle of the city. It’s cobbled roads stretched like arteries through town until they faded into cemented sidewalks and busy highways.

It stood there, like a portal to another time, and its inhabitants didn’t exactly paint a different picture.

He’d moved away from home the second he’d gotten the chance to do so, and had immediately settled for a school as far away from home as possible. He wanted to stretch himself thin across the globe, so not a single bit of him could be pinched and pulled into the shape his folks wanted him to be. And so, he’d settled for Prague. It wasn’t, in hindsight, his brightest idea. The city, while beautiful, wasn’t exactly ideal for the likes of him. It simply wasn’t like him in the least. Prague was… eloquent in the way it spoke to its people. Its old, European architecture was stout and proud and brimming with so much history it made Atsumu dizzy whenever he thought about it. Everything about it was foreign, a different taste of a different power, a completely alien culture. Osamu had, flatly, dubbed it a heavy case of culture shock. Atsumu hadn’t been much convinced of that. Two years had passed and he still felt misplaced, judged. Alien.

So he took comfort in the small, cobbled side-roads, and this road in particular. His favorite road. The one with the little bookstore and its fashionable inhabitant.

It had taken some annoying prodding on Atsumu’s part, but after a while he’d finally managed to squeeze out the shop owner’s full name. Perhaps it was because Sakusa was the only other Japanese person he knew in town, or perhaps it was because he dressed like he’d stepped out of the 19th century. Balloon-sleeved with his high-waisted black dress pants, buttons along the hem of his clothes, lacing and lace and embroidery and dark, dark, dark colors everywhere. The day he first saw him in anything not black, or a shade of black, was when he’d walked in on him putting on a tight, black west over a white, silken shirt. Ballooney sleeves and all. The lacing on the front, loosened after a day’s worth of work, gave Atsumu a glimpse of pale, dotted skin and a firm, contoured torso. He couldn’t deny that his sudden lust for a man’s goddamn collarbones had left him speechless at day and grumbling, hot and flustered in his bed, at night.

It wasn’t that Atsumu thought of himself as… heterosexual. No, he believed there’d always been more to him, but it was yet another one of those things he liked to keep… concealed. It wasn’t important. The world needn’t to know about whom or what he fancied, and they certainly didn’t need to _see_ it on him.

Like on Sakusa.

You could tell, on Sakusa.

He didn’t try to conceal it. When Atsumu had jokingly asked if he was gay Sakusa had told him, “I am. So what?”, as serious as ever, and continued with his idle flipping.

Since then the number of books on his desk at the dorm had grown exponentially, and as seasons turned Atsumu had to start stacking them on the floor around his bed instead. He was lucky to live alone. A roommate would mean he’d have to eventually sleep on all his books, and he couldn’t see any way in which that would be tolerable, least of all comfortable. Because, as it turns out, Sakusa wouldn’t tolerate Atsumu walking out of his store empty handed. It meant his visits were short and few in between, but as Atsumu’s visits became more and more frequent, and his wallet thinner by the day, Sakusa’s attitude changed.

The stoic, uncaring owner who’d previously spent every second of his day sitting in his worn-out leather chair behind his sturdy desk started approaching him. Not near enough to touch, not that either of them cared for it—certainly not Sakusa, who was averse to all things filthy, and who consequently considered Atsumu to be the biggest pig on Earth—but close enough to point to the many books lining his shelves that he thought were of any value. Close enough to show Atsumu, in his own, round-about way, that he saw value in Atsumu’s personal preference, and had on top of it all taken note of it. It came as a surprise to him at first, that Sakusa Kiyoomi had noticed the books he enjoyed, but he eventually came to understand that it was the man’s job after all. Every time Atsumu came by, Sakusa was the only one in the store. Sakusa was, also, the one who scanned his purchases and gave him his receipt time and time again, neatly tucked behind the cover of his purchases.

For all his pretending, Sakusa had noticed him, and the thought shouldn’t have made him as happy as it did.

\---

_Baby, tell me if I’m being strange_

_and if I need to rearrange my particles I will for you_

\---

It was one snowy winter night, the night Sakusa became just a little less untouchable that Atsumu’s life took a turn in a way he could have never expected.

Atsumu was sitting on the soft, worn leather armchair behind the desk, fiddling with the hem of his jacket as he watched Sakusa close shop for the day. At first the grumpy owner hadn't liked the idea of housing Atsumu for any longer than strictly necessary, but after a heart wrenching rant from the man himself—about how insufferably lonely it was in his crammed, depressing excuse for a dorm room—the man had yielded, and over time even allowed Atsumu a few minutes of bliss in his chair. Not without making a scene of disinfecting the thing every time after Atsumu had been sitting in it, of course. He had expected no less. He thought it almost… endearing.

Sakusa’s little habits, his obsession with cleanliness, his cute little pouts and gruff, painfully honest responses to everything and Anything had grown on Atsumu.

He learned that the owner was a whole eight years older, and quite painfully uninterested, one fateful evening after a good win for the club and a few too many shots on Atsumu’s part. He had proudly proclaimed his love (and lust) to the unsuspecting man, which had resulted in a black eye and an earful about responsibility and their age difference and all things in the world that tore them apart.

And he knew, really. Atsumu knew Sakusa was out of reach. He’d known from day one that him and Sakusa would never go beyond a shop owner and his annoying customer who stayed after closing time and pestered him on any given chance, on any given day.

And today was one of such days.

“Leave already,” Sakusa grumbled from his bent position at one of the bookshelves, in the process of dusting them clean and rearranging the books back in their correct, alphabetical order. “You’re being a nuisance,” he muttered.

Atsumu finally let go of his vice grip on his sleeve, where he’d twisted and turned it so much it had worn and torn at the hem.

“So eager to get rid of me?” He fired back.

Sakusa didn’t reply.

“Seriously, why do ya hate me so much. Is it the hair, ha?” He asked, defensive all of a sudden. “I know is kinda pissy, but my hair just refuses t’ bleach properly,” he started, but got cut off by Sakusa, who stood and turned towards him.

“Do you honestly want to know?” He asked, fixing serious eyes on Atsumu, whose skin started crawling in discomfort. Suddenly his relaxed position in Sakusa’s chair felt like a violation of his human rights. He righted himself, and swallowed.

“You’re nothing,” Sakusa started, and Atsumu’s heart sunk into his gut “You’re nothing, and yet you’re everything. You have so much, you could be so much, and yet you keep running, Miya. From what? What on Earth is so scary to you that you’d rather abandon all sense of identity than pursue yourself for even a second?”

Atsumu could only gape. Had Sakusa been paying that close attention to him?

He didn’t quite comprehend it, not then. He wasn’t hiding, and he certainly wasn’t running. Atsumu wasn’t someone who ran. He faced things head on. He was bold and assertive and demanded only the best from his teammates, and from the people around him. He wasn’t a fool, and he was certainly no coward.

“I’m no coward,” he spat, standing up so fast it knocked the chair behind him on the wooden floor. The sound crackled and sparked between them like electricity before a lightning strike.

“I don’t understand what the hostility is for,” he started, eyes burning, “Why do ya care what I am or what I’m not? Whats it matter to ya if I’m honest to myself or not? Ya don’t know me, Sakusa-san, and at this rate, with this… distance, ya never will. So don’t pretend ya give a shit.”

Endlessly, the silence stretched between them, until all that could be heard was the noise of the wind outside, and the droning sound of the many fairy lights in the shop.

Sakusa’s shoulders slumped. He looked dejected, for a second, before looking up again.

“And you wondered why I could never see myself being anything to you, much less a partner,” he said, venomous like Atsumu had never known him, “You’re a child, Atsumu- chan, and at this rate you’ll always be one.”

\---

_You’re a dinosaur today then an astronaut tomorrow_

_You’re a spaceman in the Milky Way_

_looking for ways outside_

_You left your brain upstairs next to James and Pierre_

_Have you heard the news that you’re on your own?_

_I’ll grab a noose ‘cause you’ve got nowhere to go_

_I’m dying in a hot tub_

_I’m dying in a hot tub with my friends_

\---

From that day on, Atsumu stopped visiting the little bookstore down the road. Stopped searching for ink-black skies and silk-wrapped fingers. Stopped longing for long limbs and curly, black hair. From that night onward, Atsumu vowed to stay clear of all temptations. To fully become what was always expected of him.

He won setter of the year two years in a row, and finished college with respectable results. He found work in the city back home in Japan, by the windows up in the towering skyscraper. The one that reflected the whole sun back over the city whenever it stood high enough in the sky to reach its metallic, pristine peak.

Day by day, night by night, the books he read, the stories he enjoyed, became fewer and fewer, and over the years he’d forgotten all about them. All about the stories he’d once spend hours immersing himself in. The worlds that were so vivid, so bright, he could feel, hear and smell every inch of them. Day by day, night by night, he found himself in the arms of women he couldn’t care much for even if he tried. Looked for comfort in perfumed dresses and sticky, red lips that brought him no joy. Day by day, night by night, he forgot all about ink-black skies and spotless fairy tales.

Atsumu’s reality wasn’t a fairy tale, as much as he’d spent his youth longing for it to be the case. His life was a cold, hard truth he had to accept to be happy, to find peace and quiet, to silence the noise in his head.

To forget.

\---

_They say “You should smile more”_

“ _Darling show your eyes more”_

_Aren’t you satisfied?_

_I’m tired of trying to please someone who doesn’t even care what’s on my mind_

_Let me go, I don’t need you to wipe my tears_

_Don’t you know I’m only trying to disappear?_

_Don’t wanna be young and sad another day longer_

\---

It wasn’t much but it had been all he could afford. After she’d packed her things she hadn’t so much as left a single note, a single goodbye. She just took her things and out the door she went, and if Atsumu would try to call she ignored it. Ignored and ignored him until the day she finally blocked his number.

“You look like you need a break,” Shoyou told him one day over dinner.

They were sitting next to each other, hunched over their scorching hot takeout on the kitchen island.

“Maybe a vacation, even if it means just staying in your apartment and relaxing for a few days. Weeks, maybe.”

“Don’t be stupid, I have so much work to do I honestly don’t even know where to start. They’ll give me the boot if I leave on vacation now.”

“Ask for sick leave, then,” his friend helpfully supplied, cheeks stuffed with ramen. He slurped loudly the noodle dangling out of his mouth. “You seriously look like death itself,” he swallowed, “Are you sure you’re OK? You know you can talk to me if something is bothering you, right? I’m right here, man. Use me!”

Atsumu looked at his friend. Really, honestly looked at him.

They’d recently rekindled their friendship after having grown apart post high school. Shoyou was living the fairy tale Atsumu had always longed for. The life he used to yearn for as a kid, but the idea of which had been beat out of him by life and time and a brain that worked hard against him any chance it got.

Shoyou had left for Brazil as soon as he’d finished high school. For some time he worked and lived there, played beach volleyball so much that his skin now wore a permanent, bronzed sheen. After a while he’d flown back to Japan, back to the love of his life, and played so much volleyball it made Atsumu fume with silent resentment. While he spent his days stuck behind a gray desk, working for people who quite honestly didn’t deserve his attention, much less his time and energy, slowly fading away. Day by day he could feel himself losing another piece until his puzzle would become so jagged and incomplete nothing on Earth could put him back together again.

So, he looked at his friend—at his vibrant skin and warm eyes, at the band of gold glimmering in the evening sun on his ring finger, at the smile lines that had recently started growing on his cheeks. At his happiness.

“Sho-chan,” he said, reminiscent of a time when he, too, could look in a mirror and see an ounce of what Shoyou was. Suddenly remembering heavy books and ink-black skies. “I think ‘m unhappy,” he said.

Shoyou didn’t answer him, only wrapped strong, tan arms around his quivering shoulders and pulled him closer. As close as he could, to the burning, scorching flame in Shoyou. That flame that he’d long ago extinguished in himself. The youth and happiness, the life he’d denied himself.

He regretted it all.

\---

_If you were to ask my mother, she’d tell you this:_

_When I was a little bit younger, still innocent_

_she came to my dance recital that I wasn’t in ‘cause I spent the whole time staring at myself in the mirror_

_Where’d he go, where’d he go?_

_Why am I so stupid?_

_Used to be so smart_

_When they pulled my teeth out I lost the wisest part_

\---

“You used to frequent a bookstore every day?” Shoyou asked, looking puzzled.

They were sitting on Atsumu’s couch, not really cuddling but also not exactly sitting far enough from each other to be purely professional.

“Yeah, every day,” he admitted.

His eyes were still swollen and sore, and the ads playing on the flat screen TV blurred together into incomprehensible bullshit.

“The owner…” he started, “He… intrigued me… he was older, and wiser, and looked like he’d done so much.” He was digging through old memories then, recalling the vague contours of a being he’d held so close to his heart for so many years. But his edges were blurry, and his features hard to pin down. He was forgetting him, forgetting Sakusa. Slowly but surely he’d let the image of him leave his mind, and he hadn’t even noticed the decline. The sudden realization made his head spin. He wanted to throw up, so he did the next best thing, he spoke,

“And now I’ll never get to ask ‘im about it, never get to see ‘im and apologize for being such an ass. I’ll never get to hear his voice, or read his stories, or enjoy his company ever again…”

Hot, steady tears streamed down his cheeks. He could feel the drying tracks they left in their wake. “I can’t remember his face, Shoyou. I can’t remember anymore.”

Maybe right there, twenty years since the day he found that bookstore down the road, in his respectable, modest city-apartment, was when he finally allowed himself to understand what Sakusa had meant.

“ _You’re nothing, and yet you’re everything. You have so much, you could be so much, and yet you keep running, Miya.”_

He wanted what Shoyou had. Freedom. Happiness. A home to embrace, to fall asleep at night with. He had the courage Atsumu had once dreamed about, the desire to see the world and learn how it operated on the grandest and yet most minuscule way possible. Shoyou was that spotless, perfect fairy tale. He was the proof Atsumu had been seeking out. Proof that you could be and do whatever you wanted. That there were no rules you had to follow, only those you chose to follow. He was the proof Atsumu had spent his youth looking for; that giving it an honest try was worth the discomfort, the shame and anger, because it would bring with it happiness and comfort in equal amounts. Shoyou’s decision to marry Tobio-kun hadn’t been easy, or accepted. He’d spent countless nights crying to Atsumu about it, resenting the world for its inability to adapt, to change—and yet despite the odds, despite the whole world being against him, he’d done what he knew made him happy.

Atsumu was the coward in his own story.

“How do ya do it?” he asked, voice a hoarse whisper against Shoyou’s warm, cotton-clad shoulder. “How do ya wake up every damn day and choose to be rebellious, Sho-chan?”

Shoyou hummed, stroking calloused fingers through Atsumu’s brown hair.

“Your first mistake is believing it’s a choice,” he said, and Atsumu understood. He finally did.

\---

_Feel like I’m gonna puke, ‘cause my taxes are due_

_Does my password begin with a one or a two?_

_Been a hell of a ride but I’m thinking it’s time to grow_

_I’m way too young to lie here forever_

_I’m way too old to try, so whatever_

_Come hang_

_Lets go out with a bang_

\---

It took another year for him to forget the exact shade of his curly hair.

It took another decade for him to forget his habit of pulling the strings of his gloves until they came loose.

It took twenty years for Atsumu to forget Sakusa Kiyoomi.

But there was one thing he was allowed to keep, like a bittersweet reminder of the choices he’d made, Sakusa’s voice kept ringing in his ears:

_You’re nothing, and yet you could be everything._

\---

_You know I’m just a fool who’s willing to sit around and wait for you?_

_But, baby, can’t you see there’s nothing else for me to do?_

_I’m hopelessly devoted to you_

_And now, there’s nowhere to hide since you pushed my love aside_

\---

At the end of the road, Atsumu found himself with all his belongings crammed into a car, going a hundred down the highways in central Europe. By the end of his carrier, he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t stand the glare of the sun when he had to squint at it from behind his see-through cage.

It hadn’t taken much convincing on Shoyou’s part for the idea to fully fester in his head until it grew into a feasible plan. He said goodbye to all his friends, to his family, to the miserable life he’d led in Tokyo, and went back to the roads that had last seen his heart in its entirety, hoping he could piece himself back together again if he found at least some of the puzzle pieces.

He looked in the turquoisewaves of the Mediterranean, he looked through the streets of Italy and between the mighty Alps. From up above, from down below, from every angle and every country and every experience he could desperately cling to he looked for something to keep him there. Something that would be his reason.

And he found it. Some of it. He found comfort in a cottage in the alps, and he found joy in housing young, brisk adventurers who payed for food and lodging on their journey through the mountains. He found peace in the forest near his cottage, and the mushrooms that grew there, and when he sat on his balcony, squinting at the sun, he didn’t squint quite as much as he used to.

But one thing he looked for, the one thing he couldn’t find, was home. Home was what he left behind, all those years ago, one snowy winter night, and this high up, on his perch atop the world, despite his height advantage, he simply couldn’t find it.

And such was his life until the day a stranger came in through town. He wore a black coat, and pristine white gloves, and when Atsumu saw ink-black skies it all came crashing into him. Memories long gone flooded him with such force it made him drop the tomatoes he’d meticulously been picking from the little stand in front of the homey grocery store he always went to.

Sakusa bent to pick up the dropped tomatoes, and when he rose his head—now a beautiful mesh of ink and silver locks—and their eyes met—this time he didn’t frown.

“Atsumu…?” He croaked, voice a gentle whisper in the breeze, and in three whole strides he was close enough to squeeze the air out of Atsumu’s rusted lungs.

\---

_Forty days and forty nights_

_I waited for a man like you to come and save my life_

_Recall the days I waited for you_

_You know the ones who’d said, “I’d never find someone like you”_

_You were out of my league_

_Got my heartbeat racing_

_If I die, don’t wake me_

‘ _Cause you are more than just a dream_

\---

That night, as snowflakes slithered through the air and fell to cover the ground outside his cabin, Atsumu finally had the pleasure of remembering him. Those ink-black skies that had remained the same throughout life, were gazing longingly up at him. His hair, graying and long and as curly as ever, fanned out on the pillow he lay on. Atsumu’s fingers traced the lines of his face, the curve of his lips, begging himself to never forget it again, storing it in his memory where he would revisit it every time he watched the stars from his perch atop the world. Finally allowed to touch, he indulged himself in the man that had once been so unattainable.

They’d spent a good portion of the day talking. Talking everything through. Sakusa apologized, told him he looked for him after he left, that he’d desperately been searching for him his whole life. Looking to make amends with the boy that had crawled his way into a heart he’d thought he’d locked and cooled many years before they met. But he never found him. No matter how much he searched and searched, their paths never crossed, and Atsumu sat through the whole story, sobbing and crying and spilling his heart out on a platter for Sakusa to witness, to take part in. He told him, in turn, about the life he’d lived, about the misery he’d endured. He told him about how many years he’d spent wishing he hadn’t left, begging whoever was listening to bring him back to that bookstore down the road.

He told Sakusa about the one time he’d plucked up enough courage and time to fly back to Prague, to search for him, only to find an empty lot and a lonesome cleaner who told him the store had closed long ago.

And when night came, and their hearts were firmly in each others palms, they did what they’d always longed to do, in each their own way. They allowed themselves to feel, to touch, to love one-another fully, without restraints or expectations. Without the rules of the world on their shoulders.

“This far up” Sakusa told him, quietly, as they lay watching the snow fall outside Atsumu’s window, “This far up there really are no rules.”

Atsumu hummed, tracing patterns on his chest, feeling more content than he ever had. A melancholy set in his chest, like dust it fell atop his heart.

“My bookshelves are awfully bare,” he said, “They have been for a long time, but I think it’s too late for me to change that now.”

Sakusa rose a thumb to stroke away a tear that had trickled down his cheek, and in the glow of the moon he whispered to him,

“Don’t you know? I own a bookstore. From now on, and until however long we’ve got left, as long as you promise me to not run away again, I’ll teach you how to read again.”

\---

_Hands up towards the sky_

_Forehead to the bar, lets blow this roof off_

_End up in heaven where the angels are crying_

_The city’s awake, everything’s forgiven, darling_

_Hands up towards the sky_

_We’re gonna get drunk, life is meaningless_

_Who cares?_

_The night is beautiful and you’re just like it_

_And I am a winner, darling_

\---

**Author's Note:**

> If you like what I do, and would like to throw a penny my way, you can do so @ ko-fi.com/monanik !  
> Follow me on Twitter @MONANIK2 for shitposts and art and a lot of complaining about the absurdity that is my life. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
> Let me know what you think ^^
> 
> xoxo  
> Niko


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